


An Immovable Object

by Suribot



Category: Dark Souls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suribot/pseuds/Suribot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An undead journeys out from Thorolund to find Lordran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Immovable Object

The Land of Ancient Lords is not far from what was once the high point of humanity, but the journey into Lordran is long and arduous. 

Not all undead end up in an asylum, but perhaps many wish they had.

She had lost track of her exact path long ago. Whatever land she had set foot upon was dangerous like none she had ever known. Thorolund had been her home and while it had its strife and struggle, she had never so much as seen anything even half as dangerous as a bandit

She'd slayed 28 Undead in the last three days. The mace she carried with her from home had shattered atop the helmet of an ancient knight of Baldur and she'd been using the hollow's sword since then. She found it to her liking, but it too was wearing down. It had been over a week since the last time she laid eyes on a bonfire and her estus had long since run out, the last of it saving her skin from a lucky strike of the undead Baldur knight, which is why the sight of the soft, dim flames filled her heart with something akin to hope.

Dipping her flask into the flames, she collected as much as she could. Not much. The flames were weak. She did not need it, now that she had come to the fires, but she wished to drink it. Putting the emerald flask to her lips, she savored the taste of liquid fire. It warmed and healed like the fire without never could, spreading from her mouth to the tips of her fingers. The humid air of the forest around her was frigid by comparison and made her shiver with a smile. She held her palm to the flame and felt as though she had found home, if only briefly.

She awoke the next morning, huddled close to the dim flame. It seemed weaker than the previous night, merely ember and cinders. She sighed and reached into the breast pocket of the cracked armor she had stolen from a dead cleric outside of Thorolund. It was heavy and only worn by the most elite of guards, but it had lightened considerably through her use. Chunks had fallen off in not-so-important places. She had not yet found a suitable replacement and it continued to serve its purpose. She continued to feel gently through her pockets until finally she found the tiny wisp she sought. In her hand floated a tiny black sprite, quivering against minuscule currents of air. She looked into void inside its white outline and felt something deep and unpleasant stir within her. It was a feeling like hunger, felt not in stomach but in heart. She licked her lips, surprising herself a bit with the involuntary action. She'd never done this before. The previous flames had been strong and bright. She knew the process of kindling and how it was performed, even if she did not knows its sacred rite. It felt as though she would lose something more than the objective worth of Humanity if she let it fall into the flames. It was not the only black sprite she had in her possession, though. Reaching out over the flame, she turned her hand and let the humanity gently waft into the bonfire.

She thought of her parents, of her father's irredeemable action upon himself and her mother's disappearance that had kindled his gloom. Her mind turned to the days following, the struggle to collect money for a proper burial, the sensation of dawn creeping through the windows waking her and not the smell of a baker's bread. The slow realization she had every morning that the world was not the same as it had been. It was only when tears had begun to stream down her eyes that the sprite burned through and the bonfire kindled.

A knot had formed in her gut. She stared at the flames and scooped them up into her flask. She pressed the edge tightly to her lips and drank it down fast. The fire made her body feel strong, but something ate away at her. She'd say it was the dark sign upon her back, but the tightness was in her chest.

She pushed it deep down, back as she had years before. She was good at it, but her cheeks were still wet. Instead of dwelling on the sensation, she took out another sprite of humanity, this one from a pouch at her hip. This one was contained with a glass orb, surrounded by small wooden bars to keep it from shattering. She placed it on the ground, away from the flame, and waited.

She had read a book on Firekeepers back in Thorolund, a text written by an Undead Pilgrim sending his correspondence back home via carrier pigeon. Firekeepers were women whose souls were gnawed at by 'infinite humanity' and they attracted the black sprites to them. They pulled in stray humanity to themselves, using it to keep the bonfires lit. As Firekeepers were a product of Lordran, it seemed only to make sense that if she could follow a drifting sprite, she could perhaps find a Firekeeper and venture closer to Lordran. She was not sure how wise of a plan it was. She was venturing deeper into lands populated entirely by the undead menace. There was no way of knowing how near or far from Lordran she was and the sprite had not moved in its container. Her plan was untested. It was foolhardy to come here, though she'd have been sent this way regardless if she had stayed in Thorolund. That might've been better, she thought. Perhaps they'd have given her a map.

She waited for an hour. Then two. Then three. It was after the forth hour that the sprite started to drift in its container. Just a little, but then more and more until the sprite was pressed against the glass. She stood and observed it. She lifted off the ground and returned it to her pack. She traveled North.

Hours passed. Occasionally, she drew the orb out from her pouch to view it. Her method of navigation seemed to work, or so it seemed. She came upon a solid path and decaying buildings. Confident, she strode on until she came across an old church. She thought it looked different from those in Thorolund. Perhaps not of the Way of White? That seemed unlikely to her, but it was strange. Putting her doubts aside, she entered and walked down a maze-like path, several turns. Near a corner, she stopped to check her orb. The sprite drifted right, so she turned and came to gaze upon a broad chest of black armor.

She backed off quickly and tucked her orb back into its pouch, looking up at the figure. It was 6 heads taller than her, at least, clad entirely in black armor that looked to be scorched by some fire greater than she could imagine. A sword in one hand and shield in the other, the knight tilted its head downward. She hesitated in drawing her sword and before her hand could reach the grip, the black knight's sword tore clean through her left forearm, removing it entirely from her body and cutting a deep gash through her armor and into her chest. She felt air string somewhere deep inside her chest. Her lungs deflated, pierced and bloodied. Gore spilled out from the deep wound. The knight shook the sword clean of blood and turned around. Her vision grew hazy. She fell to her knees. The woman from Thorolund died once more.


End file.
